


The Personification Of Perfection

by Ulfrsmal



Series: Perfection Personified [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulfrsmal/pseuds/Ulfrsmal
Summary: Somehow, both had ended up in the same place in which everything had begun a few weeks ago. Neither wanted to admit it out loud, and probably not even to themselves, but they were both all bark and no bite. They had been talking for hours already, about Precursor sites, about clues, about names that they would’ve paid to forget, delegating to one another the task of taking the first step. And, of course, neither the Grand Master nor the Master could decide to do it. Even though they both wanted to.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Series: Perfection Personified [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699828
Kudos: 31





	The Personification Of Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one (1) hour as warm-up for a final exam on the 7 June 2016.

Somehow, both had ended up in the same place in which everything had begun a few weeks ago. Neither wanted to admit it out loud, and probably not even to themselves, but they were both all bark and no bite. They had been talking for hours already, about Precursor sites, about clues, about names that they would’ve paid to forget, delegating to one another the task of taking the first step. And, of course, neither the Grand Master nor the Master could decide to do it. Even though they both wanted to.

But of course that, between one thing and another, half the afternoon had already passed, and Lee could be back at any moment, and the _Sussex_ needed to know what course to follow before the day after tomorrow arrived – and the list of nonsensical things did nothing but grow. They were all stupid things that seemed to come to their minds merely because they didn’t know what to do with themselves, nor with the other. Things to which they never really pay any attention to, such as how the wood of the desk in Shay’s room needed a new lacquering, or how tall the garden’s climbing plants outside the windows had grown – windows that, by the way, needed a great dose of water to clean all vestiges of the past rains off.

They were never this indecisive.

And knowing that truth, and that they didn’t seem able to change it, pissed them both off much more than the simple fact that they could not find the necessary courage to speak about the things they really wanted to talk about.

The sound of a door slamming opened, or maybe shut, caught Haytham’s attention quite powerfully; and Shay barely resisted the urge to gruff. Apparently Charles Lee, that lapdog who seemed to want to fuck Haytham more than he wanted recognition within the Order, had just arrived. The Irishman felt a kind of irrational and primordial ire within his chest upon knowing himself zealous of something that was not his to begin with – zealous of something that he could not reclaim. His personal nemesis (yes, Shay was conscious that such a term was inexact by definition) dedicated him a grey stare, both literally and metaphorically; and Shay almost lost control of himself.

Fortunately for their reputations, he could contain himself just in time – the noise of the room’s door opening provoked an acute pain in his head. Shay suspected, from the place where the ache was located, that it was a product of that fall which, years ago, had granted him the same scar that wanted to be kissed by lips older than his own.

Haytham felt more than saw how Shay raised one hand to lean it close to his own temple, fingertips practically caressing the sharp edges of what in times past had been an ugly wound. Almost as sharp as the rest of Shay’s factions, Haytham’s treacherous mind insisted on pointing out, and Haytham sent it to hearken with a single, well-said word. He was already much too accustomed to his own diatribes than to stand those of others – especially when heat concentrated between the rugged cloth of his trousers and not within the chimney that, now that Haytham thought about it, should have been on since about an hour ago.

Another thing that he had overlooked during his discreet, yet effective, daydream. Another thing causing him a headache because, if there is still someone who does not know, not a single detail can escape from the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite of the Templar Order, Haytham Kenway.

Except for when he is in the same room as Shay Patric Cormac. Or when he hears his name in passing. Or for when he seems to worry more than strictly necessary for said hunter. Or for when he caught the gaze of those eyes that were sometimes blue and sometimes green, or even the most mellow of those sweet, mahogany-brown tones.

Haytham knew he was paying no damn attention to whatever it was that Charles was telling him and Shay. The worst part was that Haytham didn’t give a rat’s ass about it.

And of course that Charles waited patiently to hear what his Masters had to say about the royally annoying tirade he had just let out (Haytham doubted very seriously that Charles could understand just how untimely his entrance had been), and Charles was still standing there, looking at them. Shay allowed himself a single, self-complacent smirk, knowing quite well that Haytham was going to be sparse in words and even more so in patience. It wasn’t as if Shay himself wanted to play babysitter, of course. Nobody wanted to; that’s precisely why Charles Lee spent more time out there on a mission alone than at home with a good book. The poor man was a good man (though only good for the Order), but when it came to his relationships with his superiors, he was too obvious. Read as _too_ obvious.

Shay was about to laugh at the irony of the long silence that accompanied Lee’s deer-caught-in-front-of-a-gun expression – although, in reality, a canine tail behind him and a pair of dog-ears sprouting from his dark hair would suit Lee much better – but Shay could not laugh. He could not, but not because he didn’t want to; it was because the object of his most recondite secrets started to talk – and, when Haytham spoke, the rest of the world shut up like horny whores. Haytham’s whores. Even though nobody knew of any woman he was affiliated with. Aside from Ziio; but it had been years since her, and _she_ had been the one to ditch him.

Shay could not understand how. Or why. Haytham was… the personification of perfection. He had always been. Compared to him, Shay was like the Moon standing by the Sun; eternally reflecting the light that he himself could not emit on his own. Desiring the only person who seemed to not desire him in turn.

It is important to notice that, for an experienced hunter trained by the Assassin Brotherhood who also had the gift of Eagle vision and all the resources of the North American Templars, Shay Cormac was really fucking _dense_. And such an expression falls short – really short. As short as his sights, apparently, because he cannot see the tension in the straight line of Haytham’s shoulders as he throws (quite literally, too) Charles out of the room. And it’s still in the air _why_ exactly Charles thought it would be a good idea to penetrate right into the middle of Shay’s room, in Shay’s house, when Shay had company (and it was obvious that he had company; their voices resounded all throughout the otherwise empty household).

Another thing that Shay is incapable of seeing is the glint in Haytham’s eyes, but he does see how Haytham turns towards him. Shay appreciates how his lips curve when he speaks. And how his clothes hug his form. And Shay likes seeing Haytham like this, because without the long, blue overcoat and the tricorn, he looks a thousand times more attractive to Shay – and the urges to slam Haytham back against a wall (or to be slammed by him, what does it matter at this point) do not cease to grow. Almost as much as another part of Shay’s anatomy, which seems to not have heard his mind’s words of _quiet, you treacherous bastard_ – words that he’s repeated millions of times by now.

But Haytham has seen it all, because blinded by lust or not, he still is almost ten years older, and experience plays in his favour, even though he is much newer than he is ready to admit to this game of seduction, of being seduced, of wanting to have another man by his side in the same way that he already had Ziio, or even more. More often, stronger, closer, faster, more tender, more lovingly.

Do not let it be said that Haytham is incapable of feeling; in fact, he feels more than anybody else just how soft Shay’s lips are against his own (even though he knows this impression is only that, an impression; and he knows that both he and Shay are rugged by the lives they lead). And speaking of _lead_ , Haytham lets Shay lead, and he takes the initiative and Haytham lets himself be done – because both know that they need it, and both feel that their heartbeats have grown synchronous for whatever strange reason, and both know very well that this will never be enough and that it will never stop surprising them.

Haytham knows perfectly well that Shay looks at him like he’s hung in the sky all the stars that guide Shay at night. What he needs the love of his life to understand now is that perfection exists also within renegade Assassins who dare to kiss their superiors.


End file.
